


Dragons

by RogueBelle



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Gen Fic, House Martell, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-20
Updated: 2011-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-17 03:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueBelle/pseuds/RogueBelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Braavos, two men, neither of whom are merchants, meet on the docks to discuss the acquisition of dragons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dragons

**Author's Note:**

> Written before the DwD release (and thus not anything resembling DwD compliant).

"I know what you're looking for."

Quentyn turned about. The source of the voice was a short man, with the hood of his cloak pulled low over his forehead, so that Quentyn could only clearly see the lower half of his face. Jowls sagged, with weight, not age. His accent placed him as Westerosi, not Braavosi. "Most men strolling the docks are looking for a ship," he said, his tone amiable despite his wariness of the stranger.

"A ship, yes," the stranger said. "But to where? And for what?" Chubby white fingers spread out from beneath the folds of the cloak in an open gesture. "Harder to guess. You call yourself a merchant, but I know what goods you seek."

Quentyn sidled closer, some instinct twinging in the back of his head, warning him that this conversation could quickly take a turn he would not want overheard. Still, he attempted to stay jovial. "Pray, then, demonstrate your deductive powers. I have some time before my agent is to meet with me, and your tale may prove diverting."

"Dragons, young master," the stranger replied. "You have come to the Free Cities with only one thought, only one purpose, to find your dragons."

An icy chill ran down Quentyn's spine, more from how the man said it than from the precise words that he said, but he endeavoured to keep any sign of that from showing on his face. He gave a casual shrug, sliding his thumbs into his belt. "Most merchants have the same thought. Dragons, pearls, crowned skulls -- coins are coins, and money is money."

"Ah," the stranger said, a grin forming on his lips. "But most merchants want as many dragons as they can get. You, my friend, desire only three."

Quentyn fell back half a step. "Who are you?" he demanded, abandoning his pretense of nonchalance.

"I am a man who hears many things," came the reply. "It has become more difficult, but—" A giggle, which Quentyn felt entirely out of the appropriate tone of the conversation— "not impossible, since leaving my comfortable nest back in King's Landing. The trade-off is that here in the Free Cities, there are so many more things to hear – and so many more people to hear them from. And I have heard things, my young Dornish lord – things you would wish, I think, to hear also."

That set Quentyn's lips in a firm line. "What is your price?"

"Ah, well," the stranger said, "I find myself at several loose ends at the moment, in a position to demand little." The humility in his voice did not ring quite true to Quentyn's ears – and yet it did not seem entirely false, either. This, he suspected, was a man for whom truth-telling was a matter of convenience. As much let out as was necessary, as much withheld as was safe. "It costs me nothing to help you find your… dragons. If I should do you a good turn, I would ask only that you do one for me, someday, when I might have the opportunity to... remind you of it."

"A favour, you mean?" Quentyn specified, arching a dark eyebrow.

"Yes, that should do nicely. I have no doubt that—" another little giggle "—should your venture succeed, you would feel very grateful to me, and I believe you to be a generous man."

"Only fools grant such vague boons," Quentyn insisted, "and besides, I do not like to be in any man's debt. I could hardly leave this city in good conscience without the balance discharged."

"Every young man falls into debt, of some kind, sooner or later, and I'm a better man to owe than most." From beneath the cloak, Quentyn could see the flickering shadow of a smile. "I'm very patient. I can wait years before calling in what's owed. Let me hold your marker, and you won't regret it."

"Quite a promise." Quentyn rubbed at his brow, trying to calm the thrumming rush of his blood. "You're a trusting soul indeed, to yield up such valuable information on a mere promise."

"Oh, young man," the stranger said, "I think, given your history, you would not disappoint me."

"It may not be a question of my honour," Quentyn pointed out, "but rather my ability. You have no surety of my success."

"And have no doubt," the other man promised, "if I find another man who I think has a better chance, I will provide him the same information."

A wry smile turned the corner of Quentyn's mouth. "An honest dealer indeed. I can't fault you for that."

"I have no reason to mislead you," the stranger said, leaving Quentyn with the impression that he had no qualms about deliberately doing so to anyone who gave him cause.

Scuffing at the wood beneath his feet with one booted toe, Quentyn shrugged, "I confess, your offer is intriguing. But, though you seem to trust me, how can I know to trust you? These docks are full of mountebanks, charlatans, all sorts of unsavory creatures. I could be being led to my unwitting doom. I mean no offence, you understand."

"Oh, of course, of course. No offence at all. You're right to be cautious, particularly in such trying times." The flicker of a smile again, illuminated oddly in the fading light. "Indeed, it's a trait that would serve many other men in good stead. Or would have, in the not very distant past."

Quentyn shifted slightly, his ears pricking at something unusual in the stranger's voice. Westerosi, and in Braavos, and speaking in riddles – this was a man with much to hide, and who, Quentyn guessed, had made a gamble and lost, not too long ago. But a gamble on what? "So then, stranger," he said, with a slight cough, "what surety can you offer me that I'm not being led astray? I shouldn't care to wake up in some alley, robbed of my coins – and I should care even less not to wake up at all."

The man laughed appreciatively. "Subterfuge, I take it, is not your art. Ah, well, there's no need for it to be. Not where I'm sending you. An honest heart and tongue will serve you better there than here. All the more reason to shift you on your way." The stranger shuffled closer, dropping his voice. "If you require proof, I give you this: I know what House Martell decided when it wed itself to the dragon. I know what decisions were made all those years ago, and I know who holds them faithfully still. I followed the Red Viper and all his bastards, spinning their machinations for his brutalized sister. I followed the career of Lord Yronwood's fosterling, when no one else gave the slight lad a second thought, so far away. And I followed his sister, and her follies. And I followed the dragons, even as they went farther and farther from me." His hand fell around Quentyn's wrist, the grip in the fat fingers surprisingly strong for a man who, Quentyn could tell from his stature, was no warrior, but he offered no threat. Raw sincerity burned in his voice. "As I said, I hear many things. I know what secret it was drove a dragon prince to kidnap a wolf from the north, I know what fear haunted him to his grave, and that is why I believe – " He drew a slightly ragged breath. "Fire and blood, Quentyn Martell. Fire and blood alone will preserve Westeros from complete ruin. I serve the realm, and the realm needs dragons."

The stranger released him, stepping back. Quentyn's mind raced; his father's letters had kept him well-apprised of what was going on back at home, but the mention of Prince Rhaegar pricked his attention more than anything. His father had said something similar, though similarly vague, about why House Martell had stood by the Targaryens, even in the face of the insult to Elia. Mad Aerys thought he'd needed to bind Dorne's loyalty with hostages; he should have known – Rhaegar should have convinced him – that no such measure was necessary. Conflicts and rivalries, going back a generation and more, threatening to engulf the future. "I believe," Quentyn said, "I take your meaning."

The man's hood shifted a touch as he looked left and right, at the busy docks. No one was paying them particular attention, though a few passers-by, laden with crates or sacks, narrowed their eyes at the two men taking up space in their path. "Markets are usually such good places to talk of exchanging dragons," the cloaked man said, idly, as though making a casual observation, all the desperate candor gone from his voice, "but not, I think, for us. Come. I know a tavern with excellent ambiance."

Quentyn had to put concerted effort into not snorting, but he understood what the stranger meant: a place where, for whatever reasons, they would not be in danger of being overheard. "It sounds quite amiable."

"Stand me a drink there," the stranger said, "and we shall speak further."

The offer hung in the air a long moment, as Quentyn considered the matter. Dragons, indeed – for dragons his father had sent him east, packed him on a ship without a word to anyone and sent him searching. But Quentyn Martell had his own reasons for making the journey. Quentyn Martell dreamed such dreams, vivid and driving and dire, and dragons figured in them less than, he felt, with some touch of guilt, they probably should. His father's instructions had been all blood and revenge – revenge for poor, long-dead Elia and her children, revenge for Oberyn, revenge for the shame and ignominy of accepting illegitimate rule. Blood and fire and vengeance, that was what Doran Martell wanted, that was what would quiet so many restless Dornish hearts.

Quentyn's heart was another matter. Not that he did not desire revenge, too, but there was more – a greater dream than hate, a dream of a woman with sun-browned skin, hair like moving ice, and eyes like amethysts.

And that was motivation enough for ten such quests.

"Yes," Quentyn said, slowly, "show me your tavern." He offered the stranger his hand. The man smiled, and shook it.

"I will be so glad if we can come to an accord."


End file.
